Bereft
by Chaosisalightsleeper
Summary: Varian Wrynn discovers just how much can be forgiven, for friendship's sake. A "what if" story. AU.


**I do not own Warcraft.**

Bereft

The Ashbringer was sated, and Tirion Fordring stepped aside as the King of Stormwind approached the dying Lich King.

_Arthas._

Here was the man he had once known, once loved as a brother, and then lost to the darkness. He lay outstretched upon the ice, calm now, awaiting his death, his pale features still painfully familiar to the man who had been his closest friend. Arthas watched him, his eyes lucid, filled with anguish, with recognition and regret; all rage and its madness had dissipated with his powers. One bloody, jewel-like tear crackled into ice as it tracked his pallid temple to stain the white tangle of his hair.

Those who had marched through his frozen hell to bring him down crowded close in a restive circle. The dark King had fallen, and none among them held any frail hope of _his_ redemption. There had been too much unraveling horror endured for even one moment of clemency. There was no allowance at all for any possibility that something might be left of him to save.

Every horrific deed he had ever sanctioned or committed came to be his unrelenting witness. When at last he fell, it was hard and it was final. They gave the ravening lion what he had given—no quarter and no remorse. By blood and in terror, they had _earned_ his death. His savage life was _theirs_ to dispatch.

His crimes, his ferocity, these warranted just such an end, and when the righteous blow broke the hold of the brutal blade, he received in full what he had wrought. His true destroyers—the murdered, the stolen, the souls of the dead he had ensnared—rose up from their shattered prison, a roaring, famished rage.

And they tore the life from him _in pieces_.

That night, in the cold laughter of the malevolent dead, Varian Wrynn learned there were darker reaches that the living mind was not meant to grasp, nor be compelled to brave. Realms where veiled judgment was meted out beneath a pall even the Light could not dispel.

This quest had reshaped them all; even the best of them had turned—and into something colder, callous. The very darkness that had been the ruin of the fated man before him had reached to touch them all, urging them to violence.

Varian faced them then—his fellows in this fight; they were unrecognizable in their vengeful wrath. The commanding voice of a king none dared defy rang out to contest the covetous shadows that stretched to overcast the Light. Steel blue eyes—cold as a winter's sea—moved to fix them with a feral glare. They were the eyes of Lo'Gosh; and it was the growl in the throat of the Ghost Wolf that chilled their blood with a wildling edge of fear.

Darkness lost its grip; and uncertain of what their intent had been, the disconcerted throng withdrew. Their purpose changed and vengeance now but a word, unheard, they left the two men to their conclusion.

There was the crash of armor on ancient ice as the King of Stormwind knelt beside the vanquished god of death.

"Varian," the voice was a hoarse, bare whisper, the panted breaths laced fresh with the stench of blood. One gauntleted hand lifted, its fingers raking against the impervious plate covering the king's broad chest. "Help me…"

"No, Arthas," he murmured, leaning close, his throat aching, his chest constricted, "I am sorry; but I cannot."

The green eyes gazed into his, glittering with pain, and a wounded world's burden of remorse. The once-fair head tossed, the hand dropping to his own chest, moving across black, iced plate, fingers tugging, strengthless, at the damning armor encasing him.

"_This...__" _Desperate to be understood, restless fingers tapping against metal, Arthas entreated him, "Help me... be _rid_ of it."

Varian gasped in realization, reaching out, all hesitation gone, in a whispered affirmative; but it was more the wolf than the king who understood the true depths of that imperative.

Was even a moment's sanctuary deserved by a fiend? Perhaps not, but what of a friend_? _What of the price this lost soul had willingly paid, innocent of the subtle intent? He had given his all for a higher purpose, only to see it twist and sweep him to his destruction.

'By the gods', Varian swore, in the turmoil of his mind, 'this reprieve is _due! And I will see it done!'_

Strong fingers clawed at ice-crusted buckles, tearing into their resistance with force. Varian growled softly in frustration; the corrupter would not relent.

A fleeting interim of peace was all he sought, one final act of charity—and it was to be _denied_ him. Such was the Light's touted _Grace?_ This man had suffered past his measure, trapped within the monstrous blade, his soul forfeited, tormented by the sins of his captor. What was the value of grief's burden, if there was to be no mercy? It was better he go to what awaited him, impenitent and defiant, untroubled by memory and its despair. Varian beseeched the silent Light, for pity's sake, only to then bitterly curse it for its indifference, an outcry of helpless futility in the deepening dark.

He stared at Arthas, stricken—as if he were a drowning man, just past salvation's reach. _And so he was._ Furious, driven to _act,_ to ease the hellish weight of these last wretched moments, Varian tugged at the breached, but tenacious magical plate, graven with its esoteric runes of power. It was a taker, a destroyer, the nemesis of innocence, festering rage and madness, feeding off a soul once pure, now broken and engulfed in its malice. Unbending, pitiless, it would take the very last of his life, before death could deliver him.

Accepting this, which brought its own peace, Arthas shook his head, focusing his stinging eyes and remaining strength on one objective. Painstakingly, gasping with exhaustion, and so acutely aware of the terrible darkness that gathered to take him, Arthas freed his right hand of its gauntlet, sighing with relief as it clattered to the icy stones.

Realizing his intention, Varian tore at his own metal glove in quick response, even as Arthas lifted his hand, pondering him with weary sorrow. Varian's gauntlet was ripped off the powerful hand it served, and the king threw it aside with desperate haste.

The two men clasped hands. It was a fierce grip. The only embrace allowed them, here at the world's pinnacle, on the edge where life withers to fall. It was brief—that interim—too brief, before the descent of death, yet it encompassed in its short span, all they had shared, all they had lost, and something fragile, perfect, a thing doomed to transience, was momentarily regained, for these two friends, left bereft.

Faded green eyes gazed into darker, stormier blue; and they were as unwavering as Arthas remembered them. Now red-edged and distraught, they glowered at the pain, resentful of death's presumption. There was a bright sparkle of unshed tears, resolutely held in check.

Varian had always been the strong one, Arthas knew—but for this one secret, devastating thing. The hated tears, and the stern denial of their truth. And he saw with a clarity that had once eluded him _why_ _that was,_ and he smiled at this hard, hurt, unyielding man—his friend—understanding now, at the end. It was a familiar, crooked grin, wry and warm, and Varian's aching heart clenched painfully in his chest.

The pale eyes widened slightly, seeking, forlorn, their pupils dilating, glistening pools in the eerie glow of this terrible, hungry place, "Forgive… me…" Arthas whispered, words breathed like a prayer, relinquishing life, even as his gaze stilled; and before Varian could speak to absolve him, he was gone.

His faint sigh of release was all that lingered, and it harried an already haunted man. The cold hand relaxed in Varian's rigid fist. It was the very hand that had wielded Frostmourne, committing heinous acts against the Light, and life. Yet, that same hand—a lifetime ago—had offered him the only comfort from his pain, a silent solace, where no words could suffice. Varian only gripped it tighter, staring into lost eyes, as implacable death settled, and as a crust of killing frost overtook the green.

A harsh gasp of pain left Varian's throat. "I do," he whispered, his voice breaking, "I do forgive you, brother."

Words, like tears, they fell with a weight of sorrow, unheard by any other, save the icy wind that mocked them.


End file.
